Meeting in Darkness
by JackOwens1860
Summary: My take on Bruce revealing his secret identity to Dick. Bruce's POV
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: Secrets are important. Sometimes they are created out of guilt, neccessity or a combination of both. However great a burden one must carry, it is always best a burden shared. Bruce Wayne is about to realize this with Dick Grayson and begin a partnership that will shake Gotham to its very foundations. It all begins here with the birth of the dynamic duo.**

**Meeting in Darkness**

I have exchanged words with a close associate of Zucco tonight. His name is Eddie Skeevers and I have squeezed him until all possible information regarding Zucco's whereabouts has popped out. He is lying low as assumed, but he IS still in Gotham. By this juncture I have liaised with Gordon on forensics recovered at the crime scene. The boy was right to be suspicious; analysis proves tampering. The trapeze rope was not cut as initially thought but simply coated in trace amounts of sulphuric acid. It is strangely gratifying to know the physics behind what Zucco no doubt believed to be a fool-proof plan. I am certain revealing such information would NOT be a comfort to the boy.

Although my increased presence as Bruce Wayne has had a marked effect on him – he is far brighter and more positive in his new guardian's company – I still sense an anger that is not appropriate to the situation. It is not the anger of guilt or anguish, but of violence. The boy wants revenge. I am no longer certain for how long I can keep him from pursuing a dark path. It is entirely possible my desire to protect him from the torment that has consumed my life is hindering his progress. I want him to move on with his life, but perhaps he will be unable to do that without special guidance, the kind only I have experience of. Would it be better for him to know me for who I am inside as well as who I appear to be? Should I...should I tell him why I cast such a long shadow in a city with enough darkness as it is? Should I tell him I'm the Batman? Perhaps it would be beneficial. I will consider...carefully.

It is close to midnight as I return to the cave. The house is quiet. Alfred has retired for the night. I know Dick will not be in his room. For the past few nights, the boy has been found on the rooftops, staring at the city skyline. I am certain he broods and wonders at where the man responsible for destroying his life has fled to. I am still in costume as I scale the side of the house. My approach is silent, even as I stand only feet away from the boy's form.

"You went to the circus tonight." I say in a harsh growl to make him jump. His eyes widen in obvious shock as he looks at me. "Don't try to deny it." I add to ramp up the tension. Dick finds his feet incredibly quick for someone who has never met my alter ego. He shrugs his shoulders.

"I was looking for proof. My parents were _not_ careless. What happened to them was _not_ an accident." I hear the anger boiling in his voice already; yes, he has thought for many hours on this subject.

"I know. The police know too. We are keeping it away from the media." My revelation stuns him. He frowns, as if not understanding the reasons why, only to nod moments later.

"Have you found the guy responsible yet?" He asks, seeming to already consider me his ally. I am reluctant to disclose certain truths regarding Zucco's identity and whereabouts; I do not want the boy looking on his own.

"I have an idea." It is vague, but somehow comes off as sounding resolute in my growl. The boy stands up.

"I want to help." There is nothing but total commitment in his response. He is not only willing to do anything to aid in Zucco's capture but is also prepared to do anything too. I am slightly in awe of such unwavering dedication to something he has no clue about. The boy is brave, more than brave, and maybe even fearless. Here and now, there is a tough and life-changing judgement to be made with regards to Dick's role in my world. I have to be prepared to accept unimaginable consequences and repercussions arising from the choice of one path, the most dangerous eventuality for the boy I have explored. Is the dark path I walk truly fit for company? Should I allow another, of similar misfortune and tragedy, to walk this twisted nightmare by my side? If I go into this, I cannot harbour any reservations. Like Dick, I must be willing and prepared for anything that may occur; even the boy's death.

I make my choice.

"You will. Come with me now, Dick Grayson."

The boy follows my lead without another word. He does not ask where we are going or what I plan to do with him. Perhaps the importance of such things has lost meaning for the boy or perhaps he is more perceptive than I accredit him for. We climb down the house and enter through the service entrance. As we enter the shadow-shrouded blackness of the library, Dick finally speaks.

"I'm afraid." I stop and turn to see him standing still in the middle of the room. No, of course the boy is not without fear; what child has no fear of the unknown? I walk until we are face-to-face with one another.

"I know. I was afraid too. That will change." Before I can realize the significance of such a gesture, my hand is on the boy's shoulder. Now, more than ever before, I feel the connection between us. Somehow I know he feels it too. Moments later we are treading down a winding staircase carved out of rock and descending downwards. Every step onwards makes turning back more impossible, more unthinkable. I can no longer remember a way out of what I am about to do. For the boy, life as he knew it, with its certainty and predictable pattern of events, is over. Normality and all the safety it contains is stretching off into the far distance as we reach the cave floor. Dick must now realize the gravity of this world I am letting him become a part of. He must understand its rules and he must begin to learn far quicker than he ever has before in order to survive its trials.

We halt in the fluorescent light now flooding the cave, revealing its innumerable treasures and secrets. I now have no recourse. He is staying...for good. He spends nearly ten minutes staring at what meets his eyes and absorbs all the sights he can. Then he looks at me, his gaze fixed on mine.

"Bruce?" He speaks in utter exasperation. It is clear such a revelation is something of a surprise. I pull back my mask and let him see the undeniable truth of the matter. He responds by shaking his head slowly. "You said at the cemetery. You told me you wanted to give me a happy childhood." Contradiction? Happy is a relative concept. Happiness means different things to different people. Who is to say his childhood wouldn't be better if this opportunity were not on the table? I do not sugar-coat the hard facts.

"You have made it clear that cannot happen without closure. You want to bring your parents' killers to justice? You want to see them suffer? Fine. I will give you closure. But I cannot let you go out there untrained. You must learn all that I have to teach and then apply yourself with everything you possess. There will be tests you must pass. There will be challenges you must overcome. Then, and only then, will you have your justice. These are my conditions. Are you willing to accept them?" I say without irony or contempt. This offer is genuine. Dick knows this. I can tell just from his eyes, he understands what he is about to undertake. He nods.

"Yes, Boss. Let's do this."


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Meeting in Darkness, like Up High and Funeral Dirge, was intended to be a one-off short story. However, regarding certain comments received and my own insatiable desire to somehow write the entire history of Batman and Robin the way I would prefer it written, All these aforementioned stories will be bridged together to form one complete saga of Bruce and Dick's early association. It will start from the funeral of Dick's parents and continue until certain events in Robin Year One, one of my absolute favourite graphic novels about Dick Grayson. **

**Because I find teenage angst far more intriguing than child hero worship, I will keep Dick at age twelve upon meeting Bruce. In my opinion, the dynamic between them holds greater emotional depth the older Dick is. While to some extent, I agree keeping with comic book lore (making Dick eight as intended) would help develop and strengthen their relationship by giving them years, not months together, this is MY story. **

_**Trials**_** tells of Dick's intense physical training and mental conditioning under Bruce's tutelage. It deals with Tony Zucco and the aftermath. Following this story will be two more of shorter length, **_**Identity**_** and **_**Dusk**_**. They will all be completed before New Year's Day. **

**Enjoy.**

**Trials**

I do not know whether my reasons vindicate my current actions. The boy wants revenge on those who killed his parents, as I did once. It is not necessary for him to seek it outside the law. There is every chance, every possibility that Skeevers will denounce his boss. And there is every chance that Anthony Zucco will be prosecuted in a court of law, convicted of homicide and sentenced to a life without parole. Between myself and Gordon, we have sufficient evidence to present a strong case against Zucco. Dick could have his revenge without ever setting foot in the cave. This I knew before I even considered revealing my identity to the boy. His private investigation of the circus need not have forced me to disclose my secret; Batman is more than enough of a deterrent to a child of his age. All this reasoning is spoken with logic; I am a man of logic. I am also a creature of darkness. Try as I might to dissuade myself of it, Batman lets me free my true nature. We are not two people but two sides of one man. My mind tells me training the boy to fight alongside me is not advisable, maybe even suicidal, but my heart screams out for a like-minded companion.

In the end, logic had nothing to do with my recent choices; even the darkness enjoys the company of light. Dick will stay and he will train.

"Hold it." I say without emotion. The boy's present position, performing a handstand atop of a three-inch platform six feet above the ground is not difficult for him. The difficulty comes from having already performed two-hundred repetitions of push-ups, crunches, box jumps and various gymnastic manoeuvres without significant rest between exercises. This will be the fortieth time this evening that Dick has been required to hold a handstand for two minutes. The boy's entire body is streaming with sweat. He is shaking all over from the strain and lactic acid flooding his muscles. But his face is a picture of intense focus. He wants this, very badly. He has held his current position for one minute and thirty-seven seconds. If he wishes to progress, he must hold out for another twenty-three seconds. Should he fail, he must repeat the day again until he passes. He has been stuck on this day's training for almost six days. "Hold it." I tell him once his time closes to less than ten seconds remaining. Dick is now shaking violently and his arms look to buckle under the pressure. I do not inform him how long he has left. I only tell him when he is finished. Five seconds. Four. Three. Two...

The boy's right arm bends slightly. I expect him to fall, but he manages to lock it back out with an angry scream; the echo in the cave is incredible. "Time." Dick collapses down on the platform, his arms barely able to stop him from falling off completely. He lets out a groan and then allows himself to slide off the edge of the platform, the sweat on his arms speeding his descent to the floor. There he first sits and then sprawls himself out on the ground, a mess of shredded muscles and aching joints. "Congratulations. You have passed _Conditioning Five_." I inform him once he opens his eyes to look up at me. Despite the tremendous amount of pain he is in, the boy grins at me.

"I told you I could do it, Boss." He says before coughing up a mixture of flem and the last offerings of his lunch. He vomited three times during the session. I am impressed with his progress. I do not tell him this; I cannot afford complacency to creep into his training. I instruct him to sit up; it proves a monumental task. Dick does manage to sit back up though. I hand him his recovery drink, a mixture of carbohydrate gel, protein powder and water. Alfred has somehow made it taste like strawberry milk, a remarkable feat. The boy is required to drink these after every physical period of training, without exception. He must eat four times a day just to maintain his bodyweight and energy levels without exception. His daily schedule would be demanding even for elite athletes or soldiers, but Dick is wholly committed. Sometimes he becomes frustrated, but he perseveres admirably.

"What's next?" The boy inquires from the floor as he drinks his shake.

"Dinner. Then we will move on to _Tactical Training Seven_, followed by the Combat Theory exam. Go shower." The boy's current physical conditioning is beyond anything he possessed previously. When we began training six weeks ago, even with Dick's athleticism and remarkable fitness, he would not have completed tonight's gruelling session. I would venture even completing half-of-it would have been unthinkable. Now, after only five minutes rest, the boy is able to get back to his feet and walk back up to the house without assistance. His muscles are cramped, and walking is awkward, but he is able to do it. I wait until he is halfway through climbing the stairs before smiling at him. Dick is special, that much is clear.

"Time. The exam is over." A written theory exam on combat scenarios and the various strikes required to diffuse situations may sound impractical. After all, such movements are instinctive and situation-dependant. They require precise muscle memory and repetition, not a sound theoretical knowledge of how they are performed. Adopting such a practical approach is unwise. The boy must understand the consequences of his actions, what damage such blows can inflict on the human body. He must know the dangers of mistiming a hit or performing the wrong strike in certain scenarios. Alfred's Anatomy and Physiology classes have greatly enhanced Dick's knowledge. I am hoping his improved comprehension will be reflected in his answers today.

"There you go, big guy." The boy says handing over his paper. Such extreme training has failed to dim his confidence. If anything, his confidence is now even higher than before. I have never before encountered such a sunny disposition in the face of adversity. I scan his paper. Dick has scored eighty-nine percent; at this level the pass mark must be above ninety. There can be no exceptions.

"You have five minutes to review your answers and make amendments if you choose." I tell him handing back the paper. The boy has made six fundamental errors in his tactical planning, mistakes easily rectified. I am hoping he can see this and correct them; I do not wish to have him repeat yet another exam. Dick has required a re-sit at every one of the twenty-four examinations so far attempted. The boy is nearly perfect in every instance of failure. To pass, he must perform what is required of him perfectly. No exceptions. I demand nothing of him I do not ask of myself.

"Heh." I hear him smirk. I look at him in time to see a shake of the head and a scribbling motion of his pen. I count five corrections before he returns it to me. He has identified all his errors but one. Fortunately, it is not a point that concerns health and safety; therefore, Dick passes with a ninety-six percent final mark. It is sufficient for now.

"Well done. You have passed the basic Combat Theoryexam." The boy sighs in what can only be relief. He smiles at me; I am always surprised when he does. I am harsh with him to the point such treatment borders on abusive, but he still smiles. I have never encountered a twelve-year-old like him.

"Have you found Zucco yet?" Dick asks a few moments later. Of course, regardless of his dedication, the boy is still only driven by one thing: revenge. I cannot begrudge him wanting justice for his parents, but he must exercise patience.

"Not yet, but I am close." This is a lie. I located Zucco's hideout early last week. It is an old packaging factory in The Narrows, adjacent to the Sionis Works industrial park. I planted audio devices in the building three nights ago and have been monitoring conversations between Zucco and his associates in secret. The boy is not ready for the field. He will require yet another two weeks to reach acceptable standards for minimal operations in the city. Although both his conditioning and fighting capabilities are strong, his tactical awareness and planning are weak. Such lack of awareness is too big a liability to ignore. Zucco has several men guarding him; Dick has only been trained to a 3:1 ratio in combat scenarios. The boy has no real knowledge of criminology and only basic information concerning Zucco. At present, I cannot take him with me.

"So what's for supper?" The boy says getting up from his desk. His movement is lethargic and no doubt, he will be sore tomorrow, but he no longer minds.

"I believe Alfred has prepared grilled chicken breast with asparagus tips and chocolate ice-cream for dessert." Dick rolls his eyes.

"Same thing as last night huh?" He sounds less than enthusiastic. It is not unexpected. The boy has eaten the same evening meal every night of the week since training began. His other three meals can be somewhat diverse, but he must always ingest high-quality protein and minerals before bed. The ice-cream is low in fat and only provides a minimal sugar spike. It is bland, but necessary for continued growth. There is no standard above mine; should the boy meet it, he will never be found wanting in anything else ever again.

It is almost eleven p.m. I am in the cave. Dick has retired to bed for a long sleep. I am readying to go out on my usual patrols. I am already in costume, mask already in place. I am in the process of arming my utility belt with its various survival items when I turn on the audio-listening devices in Zucco's safe house. A conversation between Zucco and someone else, possibly Eddie Skeevers, his long-time business partner, is taking place.

"_Look Eddie, I can't do this for much longer; I gotta spilt before the Bat finds me."_

"_That's what I've been telling you for damn weeks, man! All this trying to operate a business without the cops or the bat freak knowing isn't working out."_

"_Yeah, plus with that circus brat still under lock and key with Wayne, showing my face anytime soon isn't gonna improve my standing."_

"_So, you'll leave town tonight, right?"_

I stop what I am doing and listen for Zucco's response. There is a long silence.

"_Yeah, I just gotta go by my office in the Docks and get some cash for the trip. Think you can drive me there now, for old time's sake?"_

"_Yeah, sure thing. The cops haven't been there for weeks."_

Their conversation carries on, but I am no longer listening. Anthony 'Tony' Zucco is about to vanish off the face of the Earth. I know he will not resurface for many years and, even then, will have acquired a new identity to hide behind. He will evade justice. The right thing to do is inform Jim and his men to surround the office at the Docks. They can take Zucco into custody and make certain he stands trial. Dick will not get his revenge in the way he wants, but he WILL have revenge. The boy will be bitter, perhaps even angry if I acted in such a manner. He may come to resent me, may wish to expose my secrets. Regardless, such actions are the _right_ thing to do. I already know I will not do what I have just suggested. I never got the opportunity to bring my parents' killer to justice, although it is debatable whether they would survive long enough for a trial had I found them. This is a golden opportunity for Dick to find peace; I will not deny him such a chance. I make my choice.

As I go back into the house, my decision is the wrong one, the one that brings the greatest danger. However, the boy is NOT alone in this; he has me to guide him. As I approach his room, all I said before is true. Dick is not ready for the field. He has yet to meet with my standards, but he needs closure. Perhaps this is his greatest test. How he reacts to this news, his behaviour when we corner Zucco will determine the rest of our relationship. It may even come to define who he is in later life. I pray he does the right thing; revenge is a powerful sensation, capable of overwhelming even the strongest of men, let alone a boy. When I rouse him from his sleep, he asks no questions. He dresses in silence and we leave. I am worried for him.

Whilst we drive to the Docks, I bombard the boy with questions. I quiz him on everything he has been taught. He must be sharp and alert. He answers all my questions resolutely and without hesitance. The atmosphere in the car is tense and worsened by periods of intense silence. He obviously feels he is ready for what is to come. I have informed the GCPD of Zucco's location. They will intercept the Docks in less than ten minutes. That provides the boy and myself five minutes alone with Zucco as we are already on route to his location. Dick is devoid of any humour at this moment; he only sees what he wants. He understands the gravity of the situation. What transpires now will be life-changing. He must be ready to accept that he may change completely as a result of tonight's events. He may become like me. He may not. It is largely up to him. After what seems like an eternity, we arrive at Zucco's office. I had already dimmed the headlights and switched the engine to silent running several hundred meters before the destination; Zucco will not hear our approach. As I anticipated, Skeevers car is outside, parked in the shadow of the warehouse.

"Are you ready?" I ask when we are about to exit the car. The boy looks at me. Even in the darkness, I can see the steely gaze in Dick's eyes. Such a look wordlessly answers my query. He speaks anyway.

"Yes, Boss. I'm ready."

The packaging factory is a front for Zucco's illicit transportation of goods. The main factory floor and storage warehouses are not in active use. Zucco's office is located at the rear of the building with stairway access to the roof. My plan for luring him out is simple. The main strategy involves creating a distraction that drives Zucco to higher ground, namely the roof. Because the surface area of the roof is so vast, I must herd him towards the edge. Once he is cornered and cut off from possible reinforcements, the boy can step in and make his choice. Although the premise is simplistic, execution of such a plan is never as straightforward; I need numbers. With time ticking away until the GCPD arrive on scene, I make a quick appraisal of the situation. Zucco and any of his associates will be in the office or outside guarding it. Therefore, it is reasonable to discount any other structure and immediately head for the back.

The boy's use of stealth and infiltration techniques taught to him in his third week of training mirror my own; Dick could be my shadow. We reach the base of the stairs leading directly to the office, shrouded in shadow. There are only two men outside, both armed with semi-automatic rifles. They do not seem nervous or uneasy, suggesting they do not anticipate trouble. Their complacency will prove their downfall. Utilizing a two-man encircling tactic, the boy stands on one side of the stairs and I on the other. There is a ledge directly above us with a railing to prevent falls. The two men have positioned themselves directly in front of the railing. I give Dick a hand signal to communicate my intent and another that instructs him. The boy nods in understanding and I give the count:

Three...

Two...

One...

Mark.

I leap up and grasp hold of the ledge. Kicking with my legs whilst pushing my body up, I grab hold of the individual's shirt and hurl him over the edge, snatching his firearm to prevent clatter. His fall is so brief; he has no time to scream and is knocked unconscious a moment later. A second thump occurs a moment later. But there is no alarm raised. The boy's first test in the field has proved successful. We proceed to climb over the railing and press against the wall of the office. My next tactic is not a particular favourite, but will undoubtedly draw whoever is present out of the office. Taking the safety catch off the semi-automatic, I fire straight up into the air, keeping the trigger depressed throughout. Once I have exhausted the magazine clip, I discard the weapon. Those inside have been returning fire through the windows for several seconds, shattering the glass and eliminating their only source of cover. The boy is crouched below their firing line as taught. He has discarded the weapon he liberated from the guard and is waiting patiently. With the window pane no longer a factor, I toss a smoke pellet through the empty frame and let it engulf the space.

It takes several minutes and some stray shots before anyone ventures outside the structure. I incapacitate the first person to step into my line of vision with a nerve strike. I observe the boy take down another opponent using the collapsible bow staff he opted to bring with him. His movement is controlled, correctly gauged, but more importantly _accurate_. The individual is brought down in two strong moves. When nobody else appears for the next thirty seconds, I am certain Zucco has fled to higher ground via the backdoor. The boy senses this too and gestures to the roof. I nod and we give chase.

On the roof, incoming rounds force us to take cover. Zucco is not alone. He is most likely being supported by Skeevers whose weapon of choice is an Uzi 9mm. It possesses a rapid rate-of-fire, but only a small magazine. We wait until he has exhausted his current clip and then strike. A well-placed batarang on my part finds Skeever's hand. Zucco tries to give covering fire for his associate, but cannot cover the spread as Dick and I both rush forward together. Presented with two targets on opposite sides, Zucco opts to run to better cover, firing wildly behind him. Below us there is a wail of sirens and a collective screech of several sets of tyres. Gordon and his men have arrived. Time is short. Dick appears to know this too, breaking into a sprint to close the distance, oblivious of the incoming fire. His movement proves so swift that he actually makes contact with Zucco less than ten seconds later and forces him to the ground. It is a miracle he dodged the bullets, given they were NOT aimed shots and potentially could have ended up anywhere.

I am close, but not near enough to prevent a fight between them. I watch Zucco swing for the boy's head. Dick parries the strike with his staff before driving a roundhouse kick deep into Zucco's side. The man goes down on one knee, dropping his gun to one side. As I stand only feet away, Zucco suddenly clutches his chest, emits a thunderous groan and then collapses to the ground. He has suffered a heart-attack. Given the prevalence of coronary disease and heart trouble in his family, such an outcome was a possibility. I am on Zucco in moments; Dick is stood beside him, watching.

"Can you help him?" The boy asks with some sympathy.

"I'll do what I can. Hide in the shadows and wait for me."

"Okay."

Although I manage to stabilize him when the paramedics arrive, I am not hopeful for his chances. Gordon is of the same opinion. Skeevers is being treated for shock and severe hand injuries pertaining to my hit. The other two men are in custody, unharmed save for minor concussions. After everyone has vacated the scene, I retrieve the boy and we drive home.

"It doesn't appear that Zucco will survive his trip to the infirmary." I inform Dick as we drive. The boy sighs.

"I didn't want him to die. I just...wanted him to be sorry...for what he did to me."

"This is justice of a kind."

"If it is, it doesn't taste very good."

Irrespective of whether or not Dick believes he has justice, he has passed this particular trial. He was reckless in tackling Zucco, but his actions after the man went down, his regret at Zucco's heart-attack, shows me that the darkness will not consume him as it has me. He does not wish to make people suffer. Perhaps before tonight, he believed he did want people to suffer. Before tonight's events, maybe he even wanted his parents' killer to die by his hand. But not now; all he wanted was justice for those he loved. I am in awe of his selflessness.

Anthony Zucco did not survive his journey to the hospital. Skeevers and the other two men will have their arraignments next week at the latest. They will serve prison sentences as accessories to murder; Gordon's case files will see to that. Now, the boy and I are alone in the cave. Alfred is still asleep, blissfully unaware of the potentially catastrophic danger I placed Dick in tonight. The boy is sat on the bonnet of the car, mired in contemplation. I informed him of Zucco's passing some ten minutes earlier. He still has yet to speak.

"I still want to help."

"Even though you have your justice?"

"I want to do what you do. I want to make people's lives in this city better. I want to help people, like you do."

"If you choose this life, Dick, you will have to make sacrifices. Even more than you are currently doing. The training will intensify. The tests will become even harder. Are you ready for such hardships?"

The boy slides off the bonnet and stands toe-to-toe with me. "I know this isn't a game, Bruce; I know I could get hurt or die. But I am telling you, I want to help you because it is what _I_ want, not what I think you want me to say." Dick's tone and facial expression are serious and frank. He knows the dangers. Being in the field has only strengthened his commitment to a cause that has swallowed my entire life. I am uneasy letting him follow me into the true darkness of this world, but cannot deny his wishes. If he truly wants to help me in my crusade and brave all the trials and tribulations that encompasses, I will not stand in his way. He will fulfil his maximum potential under my instruction. He will then push past it. For the first time since I became The Batman, I no longer feel alone.

"You'll need a name."

"I already have one."

"Yes?"

"Robin."

"Like the bird?"

"Like Robin Hood. My mom used to say I had his spirit."

"Amongst his other talents, no doubt."

"So, we got a deal, Boss-man?" The boy offers me his hand. I regard it for a moment. There is no turning back. Maybe there never was. As soon as I saw this boy, I knew he was the one I wanted. I knew if I had someone like him, to share my burden that I would never give up the fight, never accept the mission's defeat. Now, I have all that I wanted, I must be careful not to abuse it. I grasp the boy's hand. When I finally give my reply, I feel a monumental moment in my history has just been cemented.

"Batman and Robin."


	3. Chapter 3

**Identity**

Robin? I have heard strange monikers before, but never have I had one associated with myself. The more I train the boy and the further he progresses, the more I realize how different we are as people. I am not a happy person, nor will I ever pretend to be so in Dick's company. He, on the other hand, is my exact opposite. He is positive and colourful to the point of frustration. I am certain such extrovert traits will translate to his costume; he is designing it with Alfred's supervision. I could choose what he will wear in my alter ego's company, but it would not be wise; if I am to work with this child in such a dangerous capacity, I must allow him certain liberties. I created the Batman identity on my own; Dick should be extended such a courtesy. He created Robin and therefore should exercise his dominion over all aspects of that identity. I will inspect his costume at the end of the week's training cycle. This will be his last training week. After that, I will allow him to accompany me on patrol.

It is Wednesday. The boy has already passed two final assessments; the final combat conditioning test, a brutal fitness assessment incorporating the most gruelling assault course in the world, and the criminology exam, on which he scored ninety-seven percent. The pass mark for the exam was ninety-five percent. I have been impressed...thus far.

Today is his final swimming assessment. Based on a hybrid of both Navy Seals and UK Special Forces testing, he will be pushed to his very limits. After an initial ten-metre high board entry into the pool, Dick will have to tread water for ten minutes with both the wave machine on and the lights off. Following this he will be required to swim a total distance of two-hundred-and-fifty metres before conducting brick retrieval. He will then dress out of the pool unassisted and be required to rescue a weighted dummy simulating a casualty and perform CPR procedures. The dummy is weighted to two-hundred-and-twenty pounds, just under twice the boy's own bodyweight. Following this, Dick will need to construct a floatation device, prove its suitability by swimming fifty metres with it, discard it to tread water for five minutes and then push it out of the water without exiting the pool beforehand. All parts of the test are continuous. Dick will be wearing overalls and light-soled footwear for all portions of the assessment. He must pass all aspects of the test, otherwise he will fail.

At present, the boy is stood poolside, already dressed and ready to scale the ladder. I am stood beside him with a tick sheet and a distress whistle. "Are you ready?" I ask without looking at him.

"Let's do it, big guy."

"The test will begin upon entering the water and continue until such time as you are instructed to stop. Do you have any questions before we commence?"

"Nope."

"Begin your ascent."

The boy scales the ladder without any hesitation and enters the pool in the same confident manner. As soon as he enters, I kill the lights and begin the wave machine. To ensure Dick is not in any real danger, I adopt night-vision goggles to monitor his progress. After ten minutes, the boy is still undisturbed. The wave machine ceases and the lights go back up. "Begin your two-hundred-and-fifty metre swim, then, once completed, dress back to the centre of the pool and retrieve the yellow brick on the bottom. Go."

Again, the boy manages both aspects of the swim without difficulty, even shooting me a smile as he holds the brick up in one hand. I instruct him to dress out of the pool and await my next signal. I note Dick is slightly fatigued in leaving the pool, but it does not concern me. I proceed to throw the dummy into the water and wait until he is almost at the bottom before blowing my whistle.

"CASUALTY!" I shout, stepping back as the boy dives in head-first without any further coaxing. The aftermath of his dramatic entry is the entire side of the pool covered in water. It is perhaps two inches from my shoes. My timing was fortuitous to say the least. The casualty retrieval, perhaps the most physically and logistically challenging event of the entire test, is conducted with surprisingly little fanfare. Dick is able to not only rescue the dummy in under thirty seconds, but he is also able to lift them from the water – once out of the pool himself of course – and performs more than adequate CPR techniques for resuscitation. From here, the rest of the test is a mere formality for someone of his skill-set. His floatation device, constructed from a waterproof liner and a full jerry can for buoyancy, is sound. He completes both the swim and subsequent treading water phase without any trouble. He then successfully relieves himself of his self-inflicted burden, placing it neatly on the poolside beside me.

"That concludes the test. I am pleased to say you have achieved a pass. The test is now over; you may dress from the pool." I offer, placing the sheet down behind me. Dick grins up at me, a little out-of-breath and appearing very much exhausted by his efforts. He raises a hand from the water.

"Little help, Boss?" He asks me. For a moment, I actually believe he will not do as his body language would suggest. However, as soon as I grab his hand, it is too late. I lose balance and enter the pool beside him. I am not angry. Had I wanted, I could have resisted the momentum and stopped myself from falling. However, such a movement would have broken the boy's arm. Therefore I take my punishment in good spirits. When I surface, Dick has not fled or even moved. He is still in the water, laughing at me. I respond by first giving him a small smile and then splashing him. I then use his temporary blindness to swim half-way across the pool. The boy shakes his head at me, but is still laughing.

"No fair! You know I'm too tired to catch you!"

"You'd never catch me anyway; too slow, you see."

"Oh is that a fact?"

"Yes, it is." I climb out of the pool as I say this, dressing back round to where Dick is. He looks at me expectantly.

"Please help me out?" He says in the same way a young child might ask an adult for assistance in tying their shoelaces. The boy still finds my strength somewhat amazing and often wants me to pick him up from difficult situations just to see if I am able. Currently, Dick weighs just over a hundred-and-sixty pounds, taking into account the weight of his clothes and the water saturating them. Retrieving him from the water is rather elementary for me. I reach down with one hand, take a firm grip of his collar and then hoist him straight up until he is suspended a foot above the water surface. Dick shakes his head. "Freaking incredible."

Today is Friday. The boy has just completed his unarmed and armed combat sections of his overall combat exam. Considering his only sparring partner for these tests is myself, and that, to achieve a pass, Dick must score six hits on me whilst only being hit a maximum number of one or two times, his achievements are astonishing. In unarmed combat, my preferred discipline and the boy's least favourite, he scored seven hits and just avoided taking a third. His modified left hook from an improvised block was particularly imaginative. In armed combat, utilizing his bow staff, Dick excelled against my much more formidable Nunchaku, delivering a total of twelve hits and not receiving a single counter-hit. The sequence of movements that allowed him to strike three times in succession was especially memorable for its flair and artistry. Next up is improvised combat where use of the environment is a crucial element. In the cave is a mock-up of a typical Gotham street and alleyway. It has fire exits, dumpsters, trash cans and streetlamps, all of which are authentic. It also has breakable features including building windows, shop displays, fire hydrants, doors and an abandoned car. With his circus background and the promise he has already displayed working in open spaces, I anticipate a strong performance here.

"You are familiar with the rules to pass this portion?" I check as we stand in the street's centre. Dick nods. He raises three fingers.

"Rule of threes, right Boss?"

"Only so far as props are concerned. The two-hit maximum still applies. You also have the option of including inclement weather conditions to clear that portion of the test at this moment; kill two birds with one stone as it were."

It is a big decision. If Dick wishes to add in simulated weather conditions, the test becomes far easier to fail on. Rain and lightning, the only choices open to him, present many different problems when in a combat scenario. Regardless of whether he includes the elements or not, he will still be required prove his abilities in harsh conditions. He thinks for a few minutes.

"Stick 'em both in."

"You want rain and thunder?"

"That's what I said, big man. Cue hell on Earth."

Dick's bravery is to be commended; even the most hardened of criminals would not wish to face me in such adversity, let alone a twelve-year-old. I will not hold back in any measure. The boy must be tested to his absolute limits. "You heard Robin, Alfred. Cue heavy rainfall and Thunderclap 7." I call to the old man in the control tower. A moment later, everything is being pounded relentlessly with water. The lights go out and, save for flashes of lightning, the world sinks into darkness. As the artificial thunder roars overhead, I signal to my partner in an intermittent flash to begin.

The boy instantly disappears from my view, his usual tactic. I stand in the middle of the street, waiting for his attack. I already know the first strike will come from the air and prepare myself. Unfortunately for Dick, he has already worked with me for too long; his repertoire and strategies are predictable and easily countered. However, when no aerial assault comes, I doubt my knowledge base for a brief second. The boy uses this split second of indecision to hit me with a kick to my lower back. As I turn to confront him, Dick blocks my intended right elbow with a trashcan lid before dodging another blow from my left leg utilizing a discarded cane. He then hurls both items in my face whilst cart wheeling back to the alleyway. My speed is more than enough to close the distance. The next few minutes are spent playing a complicated game of cat and mouse with neither of us on the defensive. The boy's propensity for springing from one wall to another and continuingly clambering to higher ground means I am becoming slightly frustrated by my failings to catch him. He tags me again from behind in avoiding my high spinning kick and then again when sliding through my legs. I admit, some of his stratagem is genius.

I do score my two hits but only by virtue of the boy's absurdly high confidence level. Direct hits to his face and body could have been avoided had he not come in so sharply and cut off his own angle of escape. He is slightly reckless on occasion, something I will have to correct later in his career. Despite these strikes, he survives the ten minute time limit and achieves all outstanding objectives. When the rain stops and the thunder dies, the boy heaves a sigh of relief and falls to the ground. He is exhausted by his monumental efforts. I walk over to him. As he comes up onto his knees, Dick is shivering. It is readily apparent his sodden state and the cold do not agree with him. I myself am unaffected by such inconveniences, but understand why he is.

"Congratulations, Robin. You have passed your combat exam." I say crouching down beside him. Fresh blood is still streaming from his nose. He smiles at me and nods his head in appreciation.

"Thanks. I'm cold."

"I know. On your feet soldier." I clap him on the shoulder before standing back up. His body is already seizing up, but he manages to get back on his feet. My hand is floating on his shoulder as we journey back to the main area of the cave where Alfred is waiting. The old man hands the boy a towel and a blanket. The boy does not hesitate in demonstrating his survival training, stripping off all his wet clothes and hastily towelling his whole body in fast, rough strokes. He then takes control of the blanket and wraps it tightly round himself. I do not require such treatment for my own body. I am impressed with Dick though. He does not let his modesty impede his instincts or his training. As he goes to sit down, I fold my arms.

"Don't you have some dry clothes to change into Robin?" I ask. The boy is at first puzzled, continuing to wipe the blood from his nose. Then he understands to what clothing articles I am referring. He gestures to me.

"Are you going to change too?"

"I might as well. Two minutes?"

"Game on."

Dick immediately forgets his current condition, discarding his blanket and running off naked to somewhere near the car. I too make for the armoury to suit up. To get out of my civilian clothes takes me seven seconds. To put on my base layer takes nine seconds. Accompanying Kevlar plates, utility belt, boots, gloves and my cowl take a combined total of forty-eight seconds. I therefore arrive back at the computer terminal approximately one minute, ten seconds later. The boy has beaten me back. His wardrobe choices are unique to say the least.

What draws my attention first is the overall colour scheme of his outfit. There are no drab or muted tones; his entire body is an explosion of red, green and yellow. His tunic's bright red is only slightly drawn back with a black utility belt, but even that fails to downplay its garishness. His yellow cape has a collar, one that belongs on a dress shirt, and only halts at his knee. His shoes are ankle-high, green and have pointed toes. What concerns me most is what he wears below his waistline. Instead of long leggings, tights or any other sensible variant of male dress for this work, the boy is clad only in what appear to be his underwear. They too are green, slightly darker in shade than sported on his feet or hands, but still overly noisy. To complete this outlandish creation, Dick had a large R symbol on the left-side of his chest and a bandit-style black mask over his eyes. In my honest opinion, the boy looks ridiculous.

"You can't go out dressed like that." I tell him. To my disbelief, Dick nods in agreement.

"Yeah, you're right." He says removing his mask. I am expecting him to disappear from view and make alterations. He does not. Instead he produces a green domino mask from his utility belt, one with opaque eyelets like my own and dons it. "There, much better don't you think?"

"You look like an explosion from a crayon factory."

"Yeah, that's kinda what I was going for actually."

"What on Earth possessed you to adopt such an un-tactical colour scheme?"

"Circus colours, remember? Besides, opposites attract."

"You should be more covert."

"I can still be covert. This is Robin. You said make it a reflection of who I am inside. Inside, I'm a portable carnival and circus."

"I will not take you anywhere attired like that."

The boy's smile gives way to a dour expression. He stands toe-to-toe with me. He sticks a finger in my chest. "I am NOT you. I will never be YOU. You're Batman, inside and out, no matter if you wear the mask or not. I'm Dick Grayson, inside and out, whether I stick on a mask or not. Robin's my stage name. I will not become another person for you. I'm happy with my identity. Accept me for who I am, a kid who is naturally happy, or find yourself another partner." Nobody has ever been allowed to address me in such a manner. Nobody else but this child would dare. I need that courage and, as much as I disagree with it, I need his outgoing personality on the streets. His costume choices are garish, inappropriate and slightly insane in this city's desolate landscape. Perverts and degenerates would jump at the opportunity to have their way with this boy, but I must respect his decisions. He has proven himself to be my equal, my partner in this venture. There is nobody else to partner me and he knows it. That is why he is being so forceful at present; he holds the winning hand.

"You have made your point quite aptly, Robin."

"Indeed he has, Sir. Personally, I think the young master's colour palette is the perfect foil to yours. His personality too, is a good match." Alfred says, deciding his silence is no longer required. Dick adopts his customary smile.

"You heard Alfie, big guy; I'm perfect for you. So, we cool, Boss-man?" The boy extends a gloved hand for me to validate his decisions. I am reluctant, but will not lose such a prospect or such a boy to my own reservations. I take his hand in mine, shaking it firmly.

"Batman and Robin, partners."

"Tomorrow night is gonna be wild, big man, just you wait."


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Final part in the current series **_**Meeting in Darkness.**_** Further entries will be added with positive response to this selection of stories. Enjoy.**

**Dusk**

Tonight, Robin will accompany me on patrol for the first time. For some reason, I feel certain I am more anxious about the occasion than he is. Allowing a twelve-year-old boy to join me on such dangerous streets and engage in the same violent activities as myself is scarcely the behaviour of a rational mind. So many factors could result in this being nothing but a tragedy. The boy has trained rigorously for the role, passed every test asked of him and proven himself more than suitable to be my partner in this mission. But I still have doubts. I suppose fathers feel the same trepidation when letting their sons leave home for the first time. Do I belong to such a group? Can I label myself as a father to this boy? I am his mentor, his partner in this world, but does that qualify me to act as his father? No. It does not. This line of work has always called for staunch professionalism, an atmosphere emotional attachments have no place in; I expect the same professionalism for the boy if he is to remain my partner. Whereas there are now things I am unable to take back from him, my identity and my true-self, I can strip him of being Robin, should it be required. We shall see. We shall see.

As the evening closes in, I go to inform the boy that the patrol will commence in two hours. It is a sufficient enough timeframe for him to focus his mind and suit up. I find him in the gymnasium. In spite of brutal physical conditioning sessions, Dick has still not lost his love for gymnastics. The last eight months have been beyond punishing on him, but he is still here, swinging away. I watch him perform a handstand atop of the uneven bars before he flicks himself backwards with enough force to grab the rings some seven or eight feet behind him. His grace and fluidity are still amazing to witness. He is wearing his circus outfit again, although it seems tighter round his shoulders and chest. The real difference between this boy and the one from eight months previously is slight, but obvious to anyone with a fitness background. Such an effort used to bring on heavy sweating and laboured breathing; now he hardly sweats at all and his breathing is far more manageable. His conditioning has become astonishing, rivalling even my own. It is impressive.

"It's the Boss-man!" The boy calls to me whilst suspending himself in a crucifix position with the rings. He is smiling regardless of the strain his muscles are currently under.

"Come down here for a moment." I ask, indicating the ground in front of me with my index finger. Dick somersaults forward, managing three complete rotations before un-tucking his legs and landing directly at my feet. His arms rise out to the sides.

"Ta da! Neat huh?"

"A rather elementary trick for you though, isn't it?"

"Clap anyway please."

I refuse initially, but when he does not bring his arms back down and continues to stare at me expectantly, I roll my eyes and oblige him. I clap enough times for him to take a flamboyant bow and then stop. "You applaud beautifully." The boy tells him with some sarcasm. I proceed to clap him lightly on the back of the head. He is still smiling. "Sorry. So, what's going on, big man?"

"Patrol begins in just under two hours. I expect you to be ready half-an-hour prior to our departure."

The immediate effect of my announcement is for Dick's eyes to light up in excitement. He nods. "Yeah, sure, whatever you want." His voice too is filled with anticipation; he finds all of this thrilling. I cannot help but pat him on the shoulder.

"Good boy. I'll see in ninety minutes."

"Bet I see you before you see me."

"Deal." We shake hands, "This means you've lost." I inform him, squeezing his hand. The boy just continues to smile. I allow myself to smile too.

"We'll see, big guy."

Exactly ninety minutes later, I am in uniform, hiding in the cave's shadows. This modified version of hide and seek, in which, both the seeker and his quarry are hidden from view, is one of the boy's favourite games when in the cave. I admit he is very adept at it, watching from spaces too small for my frame to fit. To date, he has won twelve games in a row, when I have indulged him. He will not win again. My eyes scan the immediate vicinity for any minute movement; there is none. Robin is obviously playing for the win. I wait in position for a further ten minutes, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. When I am tapped on the shoulder from my right, I understand I have again been bested.

"I've been right here for like six minutes. I win." Defeat, even when in the spirit of good sportsmanship, tastes bitter. The boy has won. I proceed to shake his waiting hand.

"Well played, Robin."

We emerge from the darkness into the fluorescent light. A quick inspection shows my partner to be suitably attired, aside from his 'pixie shorts' as he calls them, and possessing a fully-equipped utility belt; his organisation is getting better. Then I notice the product in his hair.

"We are going out to fight criminals, Robin; you are not required to preen for them. This is not a fashion parade."

"Says the man in the gigantic bat costume. Can we discuss this later?"

"Fine, but we WILL discuss it." I tell him as we get into the car. I am not used to passengers, least of all children. I anticipate I will not find this journey much to my liking. Unfortunately, I am proven correct. The boy does not adopt another persona for playing Robin; he is still entirely himself. This means copious amounts of talking, none of it crime-orientated.

First he poses a scientific question: could we use the car's heating system to fry an egg? I tell him no. He continues on this thread for some time, substituting the word egg for, amongst others, bacon, cheese, chocolate, a tangerine or a TV dinner. He then discloses his dislike of puppets, having somehow reached that from talking about bananas. I am baffled by the amount of nonsense this boy is able to bring forward. He wants to go snowboarding in Egypt. He thinks Independence Day should not be on the fourth of July, that it should be on Abraham Lincoln's birthday, despite the man having no involvement in Colonial America. He theorizes on sending elephants into space, suggesting their trunks could reach further than a human arm if repairs were needed to the Hubble Telescope. He thinks we should replace numerals with pictures. He begins to do this conversion process himself before running out of ideas on twenty-one, something I am privately grateful for. I bear the rest of the journey, arriving at our destination some fifteen minutes later.

Being in the field has a profound effect on the boy; in short, he shuts up. We leave the car in a disused alleyway and grapnel our way to the rooftops. As we stand there for a moment to survey the landscape, I am aware Robin has already adopted my habit of closing his cape when stationary; he resembles an art-deco lampshade. I smile at that.

"So, where do we patrol first, Robin?" I ask. The boy's arm comes forth and gestures to the direction straight ahead.

"Always start in The Narrows and work your way out."

"And why is that?"

"_The Narrows is the epicentre of criminal networks in this cityscape_." Robin replies in a very good impersonation of my Batman growl. If he were not so good-natured, I would assume he was mocking me. I still shoot him a disapproving glance. He just smiles at me. He stands to one side and makes a sweeping hand gesture.

"Lead the way, big guy. I'll pick up the slack."

"You'll try." I tell him already preparing to fire my line.

"What are the boys in blue gonna think when they find not only do you have a heart, but you also have a sense of humour?" Robin inquires teasingly. I elect to ignore him.

"Keep up, boy." I say before leaving solid ground for the roar of the city rushing up to meet me. My pace is fast, even by my standards; I barely finish firing before I am retracting it to fire once more. But the sound of a child laughing in sheer delight never drifts far from my ear. Robin could go quicker, but is enjoying himself too much to pay much attention to speed. Every flag pole, every window ledge, every fire escape is a new experience for him, a new prop to play with. He is clearly relishing every moment he is in the air, as expected. I am pleased for him.

We reach the edge of The Narrows territory less than ten minutes later and find the streets are rife with law-breaking. Amongst the usual petty crimes of robbery, assault and grand theft auto, there is currently a riot breaking out in Elm Street with whatever businesses are left in the area being looted. I count approximately thirty individuals directly involved. This should be an appropriate test for our partnership. We give no warning, preferring to drop straight out of the sky, sending several clattering to the ground. In moments of our landing, the boy has deployed his collapsible bow staff and begun sifting through the swarm. If there were any witty comments to be made about Robin or his attire, they are lost in a collection of screams and groans. The boy demonstrates his credentials with immediate effect, incapacitating six of them in quick succession.

I observe his movements in snatches, being slightly too preoccupied with my own opponents to pay much attention. His actions are as fluid and imaginative in training as they are here; I turn my head just in time to witness him jump over an assailant's incoming punch, deliver a straight kick to the individual's head and then utilize it as a springboard to vault into another's face behind him. Unless I had seen it, I would not have believed such a feat possible. Muscle memory allows me to cut down my own numbers to a slack handful in a matter of minutes, bypassing even the need for batarangs or smoke pellets; my size and hand-to-hand combat skills overcome anyone smaller than or equal to me in physicality. I have counted twelve unconscious at my feet. Others have sensibly chosen to flee the scene. When I glance to the boy, he is playing a game of tag with his last opponent, bobbing and weaving out of incoming strikes and verbally taunting him. I watch to see whether Robin knows when enough is enough. In ducking under the individual and flipping them behind him before dealing a knock-out strike he proves he does. I count nine for the boy. My first attempt only yielded four.

"Pretty good, huh, Boss?" My partner says putting away his staff. He is still smiling, no doubt full of adrenaline from his victories. I no longer experience the same rush in these situations; he makes one act with rashness.

"Do not play with them. Just take them down as quickly and as efficiently as possible in future. Understand?" I respond. Robin's smile fades. He comes to attention and nods his head.

"Yes, Sir." He is not being facetious; his stance and words is a sign of respect, important for this environment. It helps remind him he is supposed to be professional in these dealings. Regardless of his tactics, I am surprised how easily we diffused the situation between us; teamwork shows promise as a viable tool in this mission. I am pleased.

When the GCPD finally arrive on scene to take the captured criminals into custody, Robin's presence at my side initiates many stares; it is clear they do not know how to take him. Some point, some gesture and laugh, but when one detainee tries to break away, they all stand still. The boy somersaults over the individual's head, delivers a crushing dropkick to their face and knocks them out cold. He lands perfectly on his feet and then proceeds to drag them back to the wagon.

"You guys dropped this." He tells the most vocal officers with a grin, striding past them and back to my side without another word. The police officers are rendered silent in the aftermath. They look to me for answers.

"He's with me." I say before signalling to the boy it is time to take our leave.

The rest of the night is quiet. Park Row needs a few potential assaults dispersing, but the numbers are not intimidating with two of us present. Not that I would encounter difficulties on my own. It is merely that Robin is a great asset to this cause; I am in awe of how perfect he actually seems for this. As much as I would like to take credit for training and cultivating this boy, were he not the person he is I am sure this venture would have resulted in failure. As it stands, I am incredibly fortunate to have such a talent in my company let alone with my alter ego.

All police officers we encounter seem equally baffled by Robin's presence, but gradually, as word spreads through their radio network, they adapt to him with increasing ease. Towards the end of the patrol, some of them even have a little chat with him, clearly drawn in by his age and amiable personality. They warm to him in a way they will never warm to me. They respect me, in some instances fear me, but they do not like me. Not in the same way they like the boy. I am not certain what Gordon will make of this new addition to my arsenal, but I will make him aware tomorrow night. For now, I wish to take my partner home. It is late. He should be in bed.

"So how'd I do, big man?" Robin says once we are driving back home.

"Your performance was adequate."

"High praise indeed. Thanks a lot."

"Enough sarcasm, Robin."

"Tell me I'm good." There is an undertone of desperation in the boy's voice. Perhaps he needs my approval more than I realized; he is still a child after all. "Tell me I can come out again." He adds with a slight air of uncertainty; the most anxious I have seen him in weeks. I glance over and see him looking longingly into my eyes. He wants a definitive answer on the subject.

"You can come out every night if you like." I tell him. He beams at me in what can only be intense satisfaction.

"So I pass?"

"You are my partner. We are Batman and Robin. Happy?"

The boy just continues to smile. Instead of his typical quip or remark, he only utters two words in such a manner as to suggest I have fulfilled his greatest wish in life. Even before he finishes, I feel how big of an impact sharing this world has had on this boy:

"Thank you."


End file.
